Saudi
Arabia transport aircraft were lumbering northeast toward their objective, carrying their human cargo to war. Off the coast, a Navy task force carrying a Marine amphibious brigade would be making its final course change and beginning its run into its line of departure.
In less than four hours, all hell would break loose as the United States committed ground forces in Iran.
Weir understood his corps’s role and the intent of the Commander in Chief,
Central Command. He and his staff had gone over the plan again and again.
Each reading, however, did little to improve it as far as Weir was concerned. The 17th Airborne Division had the mission of seizing Bandar Abbas, an important seaport located at the head of the Strait of Hormuz. The 6th
Marine Division had the task of seizing the port of Chah Bahar, located on the Gulf of Oman. Both divisions had the task of securing a lodgement on the Iranian mainland and preparing their respective ports to receive reinforcements and supplies. Until those ports could be made ready to receive and off load ships, everything would have to come in by air or over the beach. Weir knew that large-scale operations could not be sustained indefinitely that way.
That, however, was only the beginning. The follow-on forces of the 13th
Airborne Corps would take more than three weeks to arrive after the initial assault. Once ashore, the assembled units had to move north, establish a perimeter and hold it against anything the Russians, and the Iranians, cared to throw against it, until the heavy forces arrived. These forces, namely Weir’s 10th Corps, depended on the ports and the sea-lanes, sea-lanes patrolled by Soviet warships. Whether or not the Soviets would actively interfere was still unknown. To Weir, the whole plan was shaky.
Too much depended on precise timing and optimum conditions. The 10th Corps was already starting at a disadvantage, depending on a line of communications that stretched over twelve thousand miles on exposed sea-lanes while its main adversary was less than a thousand kilometers by land from his homeland. If the 10th Corps was delayed or the Soviets made better time than anticipated, the 13th Airborne Corps would be unable to hold them for long.
A knock at his office door gave Weir an excuse to turn his mind away from his troubled thoughts. His aide opened the door slightly and announced that
Major Jones had arrived for his 1700 hour office call. Weir looked at his watch again, then told his aide to send the major in.
Major Percy Jones, British Army, entered the room, walked forward, stopped, and saluted with the palm of his hand facing out in the manner of the
British forces. “Major Jones reporting as ordered, sir.” Jones was an exchange officer assigned to the 25th Armored Division. An American major was serving in a similar capacity in a British unit in Germany.
Weir motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, Major.”
Weir’s aide brought two cups of coffee from the outer office and set one of them on a small table next to the chair where Jones was seating himself.
The aide handed the other cup to Weir. With a slight nod, Weir dismissed the aide, who left, closing the door on his way out.
Weir sat down in a chair across from Jones, sipped his coffee and began.
“I
have just been informed that Her Majesty’s Government has agreed to join the United States and France in our upcoming operations in Iran.
An armored brigade, currently slated to be attached to this corps, has been assigned to the Allied Expeditionary Force, along with units of the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force. Until further notice, you are being reassigned to my staff as an adviser and liaison officer.”
Weir paused for a moment and let that sink in before he continued. “One of the primary reasons I want you on my staff is the fact that one of the regiments in the armored brigade is the 7th Royal Tank Regiment.”
Jones, calm and businesslike until then, was startled by that bit of information. He belonged to the 7th
RTR
. His father had belonged to that regiment and had fought with it during World War II. To him, as to most
British officers, the regiment was a home, a family, a tradition. The thought that his regiment was going to go to war without him was staggering.
Weir continued. “Though it will be some time before we, and the 7th
RTR
, actually make it to Iran, I want you 79 to start working with the rest of my staff and provide them with everything we need to know so that we can integrate the brigade into the corps. I am particularly concerned about logistical support of that unit. Your assistance there will be critical.”
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Although Jones had been looking at the General, it was obvious that he had not been listening to what Weir said. Jones blinked and then spoke, hesitantly at first.
“I am terribly sorry, General, I was just absorbing the news you have given me. It’s all rather sudden. Expected, yes, but still it’s quite a surprise. You do understand, don’t you?”
Weir leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Yes, I am still having difficulty believing we are actually going.”
Again hesitantly, Jones continued. “With all due respect, General, and fully understanding your needs, I must insist on being relieved from my current posting, to rejoin my regiment. This will be the first action the regiment will see since 1945.”
“I appreciate your desire to rejoin your unit. I expected as much. And I know that your father belonged to the regiment and what that means to you.
You are, of course, free to request reassignment. But I must warn you, I will recommend against it. You, and your knowledge of how we, the U.S_
Army, operate, coupled with your intimate knowledge of the armored brigade being attached, are far too important to me to lose. You will be a valuable member of my staff.”
Jones stood up, faced the General and stood at attention. “I do understand your needs, but I shall nevertheless request reassignment.
Is there anything else?”
Weir looked at Jones. The major was visibly disturbed by the news he had given him. “No, Major, I have nothing else. You will report to the corps
G-3 tomorrow and begin work with the planning staff. Good night.”
Jones saluted, turned and left. Weir stood, walked over to his window and resumed watching the traffic below. He thought, How easy it would be if we could all just grab our rifles and run out to war. So simple, so direct.
But instead, I and the major have the “paper wars” to fight. As Weir turned and went back to his desk, still cluttered with the plan, an old Japanese saying came to mind: “Duty is heavy, but death is lighter than a feather.”
He decided that he finally understood what it meant.
Minds are like parachutes. They only function when they are open.
-
SIR
JAMES
DEWAR
Over the Persian Gulf En Route to Bandar Abbas, Iran 0358 Hours, 6 June (0028 Hours, 6 June,
GMT
)
The gentle sway of the C-130 transport and the steady drone of its engines had managed to lull many of the sixty-five men of A Company, 2nd Battalion of the 517th Airborne, to sleep. The excitement and fear that had gripped them at Ras Banas as they made final preparations and during the early part of the flight had given way to sleep. Word that they were finally going to leave had been greeted with great excitement by some of the men, who, after eight days in the Egyptian desert, were glad to be going somewhere else and gave little thought to the fact that they were going to another desert. The idea that they were going into combat was treated with a similar cavalier attitude. Most believed the rumors that the Iranians would not resist them once the Americans had landed. After all, the Americans were coming over there to fight the Russians. It would be stupid to try to fight both the U.S. and the
USSR
. Any American could understand that.
Captain Evans drifted back and forth between con82
sciousness and sleep. Their eight days at Ras Banas had been demanding ones but profitable. The men had learned a great deal while they were there and had had an opportunity to get used to the desert. He shuddered to think what would have happened if they had been dropped straight into Iran. As it was, he was concerned that his men were still not prepared for the task ahead.
Too many had the idea that the Iranians would welcome them with open arms, as liberators. The President’s message, read before their departure from
Egypt, had not helped. Phrases like “going forth in the name of freedom and justice” and “seeking out and punishing aggression wherever it rears its head” obscured the cold hard fact that they were being sent into a country populated by a hostile race in order to fight someone else. Evans leaned over and looked down the line of men as they slumped in the nylon seats, overburdened with equipment and overwhelmed by exhaustion. For a moment he wondered how many of them would be alive that night.
A buzz drew his attention to the transport’s crew chief, who was seated next to him. The crew chief reached up and grabbed a phone handset.
Before he put the handset back, Evans knew what the message had been.
It was time.
The crew chief leaned over and told Evans they were ten minutes out.
Both he and Evans unsnapped their seat belts and stood up. The men also sensed what was going on and began to stir, waking those who were still in a deep sleep. At the top of his lungs, Evans called out, “Ten minutes.”
As if on cue, the ramp behind Evans began to open, letting in the cold night air, known to the paratroopers as “the Hawk.” The blast of air and the buildup of adrenaline one experiences before a jump washed away the cobwebs in the minds of the men who had just woken. They needed that. It was critical that everyone have a clear mind. They began to psych themselves up for the coming ordeal. For some, the awful reality of what was about to happen hit home. They were going, they were really going. As they looked down the line of men toward the gaping hole at the rear of the aircraft, some wondered whether they could really do it.
On signal from the pilot, Evans, extending his arms in an exaggerated raising motion, yelled, “Outboard personnel, stand up.”
The men along the side of the aircraft struggled to stand, fighting the weight and confinement of their equipment and the swaying of the transport.
Instinctively, they reached up and grabbed the thin wire cable that ran the length of the transport above the aisle between the seats. Once up, they turned and faced to the rear.
Evans repeated his motions and yelled, “Inboard personnel, stand up.”
The men in the seats arranged down the center of the transport stood up, taking their places between the men already standing. There were now two lines, called “sticks,” facing to the rear.
Next Evans raised his hands above his head, formed them into hooks and moved them up and down while he yelled, “Hook up.” Each man grabbed the metal static line hook attached to the reserve parachute hanging on the front of his web gear and fastened it to the cable he was holding on to.
Once on the cable, he snapped the small gate shut and gave the static line a tug to ensure that it was hooked up.
When the men were settled, Evans brought one hand up, formed an O with his hand and moved the hand away from him as he ordered, “Check static line.”
Each man, starting where the static-line hook hung from the cable, ran his free hand down along his gear, touching snaps and links to ensure that all were closed and secured. When he finished his own gear, he checked the parachute of the man to his front that could not be reached by the wearer.
When the men had settled, Evans pointed down the line and yelled,
“Sound off for equipment check.”
Starting from the front of the transport, or the rear of the stick, the first man slapped the butt of the man to his front and yelled, “OK.”
Each of the others, in turn, slapped the butt of the man to his front, yelling,
“OK.” When the last man facing Evans had been slapped, he looked at Evans, pointed to him and yelled, “All OK.” They were ready.
Thetwo-minute warning flashed. Evans looked down the line of his men one more time, then turned to face the rear of the aircraft. He was the stick leader and, as such, would be the first to go. As the statue known as “Iron Mike,” which stood before Building 4, Infantry Hall, at Fort Benning, implored, he would lead his men into combat.
From his position, he could see the light gray of the Persian Gulf change to blackness as the transports crossed the coast of Iran five hundred feet below them. Behind the C-130 he was in, Evans could see several other transports. They were flying a tight formation, the tightest he had ever seen. At least the battalion would be together when they jumped.
Suddenly, Evans saw flashes on the ground and then several streams of red that streaked up, reaching for the transport. He felt himself go numb with fear. Tracers. They were being fired upon by antiaircraft guns.
Never before had he felt so helpless and exposed. The aluminum skin of the transport would not stop even the smallest round if it was hit.
There was nothing he and his men could do but stand there and wait until they were over their objective and it was time to jump. He felt a sudden urge to run out onto the ramp and jump. The sooner he was out of the aircraft, the sooner he would be on the ground, where at least one could hide or, better yet, fight back. Standing there, in a transport, he and his men could do nothing but get hit.
He watched the tracers continue to race up in wild and random patterns.
The urge to escape was replaced by a fear that when the time came he would not be able to go out onto the ramp and jump. With a great deal of effort, he turned and looked at his men. Blank expressions and the smell of urine and loose bowels made Evans conscious that the men behind him shared the same thoughts and fears. He wondered whether he was the source of the smell.
A brilliant flash caused him to jerk his head back to the open rear. To his horror, he saw the wing of one of the transports behind them snap off in great ball of fire. The transport had been hit. It rolled over to the side that the wing had come off and started to go down.